


Something for Twelfth Night

by paperandsong



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, Community Theatre AU, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nobody Dies, OT3, Polyamory, Promise, References to Shakespeare, Sexual Content, Twelfth Night - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperandsong/pseuds/paperandsong
Summary: Christine, Erik, and Raoul land the leading roles in a community production of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. But the real chaos begins after the after party.Inspired by several pieces of GeickoGarbage’s gorgeous E/C/R artwork. All text in italics is taken from Twelfth Night.Happy 2021!
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 16
Kudos: 17





	Something for Twelfth Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GeickoGarbage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeickoGarbage/gifts).



_In nature there's no blemish but the mind;_  
_None can be called deformed but the unkind._

**The Cast**

Viola/Cesario - Erik  
Duke Orsino - Raoul de Chagny  
Countess Olivia - Christine Daaé

It was the strangest production of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night that anyone in the audience had ever seen. A balmy summer breeze flowed across the outdoor stage where a mystifying triangle had finally folded together in a frozen tableau: Lady Olivia, in her feisty confusion, wielded a sword against the Duke Orsino, while Cesario, her perfect golden-eyed Cesario, placed his body defensively between them. For Cesario loved Orsino, and Orsino loved Olivia, and Olivia loved Cesario. And the lovers were confused, and the audience was confounded, and it was the most peculiar moment anyone had ever witnessed. Some would later say they could see the spark that jumped from Olivia to Cesario to Orsino with their very eyes as the enchanting lady arched her neck upwards and stole a kiss from Cesario’s thin lips, causing Orsino to sink his crumpled face and thin little mustache into Cesario’s shoulder in despair.   
Although all knew they were not really Cesario’s lips at all, but Viola’s. Viola, who was not really Viola but rather a very curious actor who went by only one name and inexplicably wore a mask throughout the entire night. No mention was ever made of it; it was not part of his costume. It only added to the layers upon layers of mistaken identities and chaos as befitted an ancient play written for a night of mischief.  
It had been an outrage, that the coveted role of Viola should go to a man. And a man as ugly as that one! Christine and Carlotta and Sorelli and a good many other actresses were deeply offended. For they had not seen him audition and they could not understand the motivations of messieurs les directeurs Gabriel and Mercier.  
Erik had not sought the part of Viola in particular. He had not cared what role he was given; he wanted only to be close to Mlle. Daaé. He would have scrubbed the stage on his knees if it meant he could be near her. During the audition, he revealed the entire range of his voice and emotion, enchanting everyone present. When he performed his perfect mimicry of the female voice, a brilliant idea burst in the mind of M. Gabriel.   
It was a risky choice - an ugly Viola. Though the mask Erik wore was intriguing, the skin visible beneath it was an unhealthy gray. His body was too thin and too tall, his eyes too dark and too deep set. The nicest thing that could be said was that his appearance was distinctive. But the man’s talent was blinding. His voice was a jewel of the ear. Thinking his mask was a mere contrivance, M. Mercier asked Erik to remove it. When he refused, the director shrugged. Clearly, the actor was a trickster and Twelfth Night was written for trickery. Let him wear his mask if he wished.  
Christine had to be satisfied with the role of Olivia, despite that the gender-bending Viola was the more dynamic character. Raoul, on the other hand, was quite content. He was confident he could faultlessly embody Orsino. He had literally been born to play the part, as Meg Giry liked to remind him,  
“You’ll be perfect, Raoul. You’re already so bougie,” she cackled during rehearsals.  
Raoul kept his mouth shut tight. It would be beneath him to correct her. By definition, Dukes and Vicomtes cannot be bourgeois. That little Meg did not understand the difference proved just what a pleb she really was.   
His brother had strongly discouraged him from auditioning.   
“It would be crass to have a Chagny in one of the leading roles. People will think I bought the part for you.”  
Philippe de Chagny was a major patron of the annual Shakespeare festival. His company’s logo would be printed on all the posters and programs, and would be mentioned alongside every promotional spot for the event. The publicity would cast the illusion of culture and respectability around both his family and company name. He was absolutely aghast at the casting choices and would have pulled out all association if the materials had not already gone to print. Not understanding the plot of Twelfth Night, he did not learn that his brother would be the love interest of the ugly cross-dressing Viola until opening night. He would not attend another performance.  
“Why on earth would you cast a man in the role of a character named Viola?” he complained to the directors.  
“In Shakespeare’s time, all actors were men,” Mercier explained. “Even Juliet was once played by a man. Part of the comic genius of Viola is that she was written to be played by a man pretending to be a woman pretending to be a man. It takes a true actor to pull this off - and this we have found! The audience loves it!”  
“I still don’t understand,” Philippe said, shaking his head. “It is scandalous. And I hate scandal.”   
MM. Gabriel and Mercier then realized that their patron had no love for Shakespeare. He had probably never even seen Shakespeare in Love.   
Erik had never been as happy as when he was Viola. For Olivia loved Cesario, just as Erik loved Christine and in every scene they shared Christine interpreted Olivia’s love with such conviction that he could pretend, if only in the lofty world of Illyria or the cramped world of the stage, that Christine loved Erik too.   
More complicated were his feelings for Orsino. Or rather, for Raoul. As long as he could have his time with Christine, he did not care who else he had to play with. But there were many, many scenes in which Viola had to subtly suppress her desire for Orsino, and this he could not ignore. If he were to keep this coveted role and his proximity to Christine along with it, he would have to act his heart out for every scene, including those in which he had to stare longingly at Orsino striding across the stage, so golden and beautiful and longed for. As rehearsals progressed, it became more difficult for Erik to say where Viola’s feelings ended and his own began.   
Raoul did not care if people thought his brother had bought the role for him. He defied Philippe because what he wanted most was not to be an actor, but to be near Mlle. Daaé too. It would never occur to Raoul to imagine himself scrubbing a stage just to be near her, but he would have taken up a mop if asked, if it meant he could prop his chin upon it and watch her from afar. But it was so much better to be an actor on the stage next to her. It was barely acting at all as he poured all of his very real pining into Orsino’s declarations of love for the Lady Olivia. He loved Christine with fertile tears, with groans of thunder, with sighs of fire, all the things. What a cruel love it was! As hungry as the sea. Sometimes he wished he had never laid eyes on her, or ever heard her sweet songbird voice. 

_If music be the food of love, play on;_  
_Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,_  
_The appetite might sicken and so die._

His anguish was real. And he would suffer the humiliation of acting alongside this ghastly Viola if it meant he could loudly declare his love for a woman as fair as Christine. Oh, if only they had cast Christine as Viola! Then they could end the play married! Instead, Christine pranced about the final wedding scene with someone else while he had to wrap his arms about a man a foot taller than himself and pretend that Erik was the woman of his dreams. 

_Give me thy hand, and let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds_

But on that final night, as the summer-maddened Olivia pointed her sword at Orsino and Viola-as-Cesario threw her body between them in tender protection, Raoul felt that something had changed. It hurt to see Olivia’s little hand pull Viola-Cesario’s mouth into a kiss and he buried his face in Viola’s broad shoulder so that he did not have to see it. But he felt it. A shudder that passed from Christine’s lips, through Erik’s neck down to his sharp shoulder blades. Erik’s hand reached behind him to clasp Raoul’s cheek and bring it close to his. The three sighed in a single breath. Yes, something had definitely changed. When a few lines later, Cesario was revealed as Viola, Viola and Orsino shared a kiss. While in every previous performance the audience had guffawed, on this night they whistled and cheered. 

Christine kept her wedding costume on for the after party. The corset she wore underneath the white dress pushed her breasts up to her clavicles and she was well aware of the effect it had on both Erik and Raoul. She quickly scanned the crowd of cast and crew. There was Raoul, spiking his own wine with something from a silver flask. He wore Orsino’s military jacket open over his white dress shirt, the high collar unbuttoned and loose around his neck. She found Erik brooding in the far corner of the room. He had already changed out of his wedding dress and back into the utilitarian black leather jacket that was his daily uniform. She gave him a bright smile. She poured two cups of wine and made her way to his side.   
“You’re still wearing your flower crown too,” she said with a laugh, reaching out to touch the silk wedding flowers that still adorned his head. He never wanted to take it off. He did not want to let go of any part of this night.  
“It was fun working with you. I’m so glad we met, Erik.”  
“As am I.”  
“I’m a little sad it’s all over.”   
How could he tell her his heart was breaking? What if he never saw her again? He wanted to grab her flowed-framed face and kiss her until he couldn’t take another breath. He wanted to drag her back to the stage and live in that scene forever, her sword pressed against his arm, her hand cupping his cheek, her warm lips upon his mouth, Raoul brushing against his - Raoul? Why would Raoul be there?   
It wouldn’t be the same scene without him though, would it?  
They spoke awkwardly for a while. Erik couldn’t take his eyes off her, regarding the delicate lace on her bodice, the upwards curves of her chest. Christine tried to catch his gaze, but his black eyes darted around, reflecting light as they did, avoiding her stare. Maybe that spark she had felt onstage could not exist off it.   
She reluctantly floated away from him to say her farwells to the other cast members. His heart froze in terror when he saw Raoul approach her. What if Raoul asked to take her home? What if he had just let his only opportunity for love slip through his fingers? She did not know what their time together had meant to him. She did not know that their first kiss in rehearsal was the first kiss he had ever had in all his wretched life. He pressed his eyes shut. But she wasn’t really kissing Erik, was she? Not even Viola. She kissed Cesario! What must he do that she would kiss Erik with such passion? What could he do to make her love him for himself? Never take his mask off, for one.  
“No Raoul, I think I will just go home after this. I’m very tired,” she was saying when her hand was snatched by a cold bony thing that yanked her away.   
“Erik!” she laughed. “Where are you taking me?”  
But he didn’t look back. He feared that if he looked back she would remember how ugly he was and pull away. But she did not pull away now. She followed him faithfully out the door and into the night. Away from the party and protected by the darkness, Erik stopped and turned to her. He took her head in his hands and pressed his mouth against hers so hard his mask rubbed against the soft skin of her cheek. He ran his long fingers through her hair, twirling the silk flowers, loosening her braids, caressing her scalp.   
“Erik - ,” she gasped when he broke away.  
“I need you, Christine. Come home with me.”  
He left her so breathless she could only pant her consent.

He carefully led her down the stairs to his basement apartment. It was his fantasy come to life to have her in his home. But once there, they found that something was missing. Some essential element was needed to recreate just a flicker of what they had felt onstage. She walked about, looking at the titles on his bookshelf, running a hand across his piano. He offered her a glass of wine, which she eagerly accepted and which emboldened her to ask a question that had long been on her mind,  
“Erik, why do you wear a mask?”  
He looked away from her in shame.   
“Do not ask me that.”  
She moved closer to him and delicately splayed her fingers across his partially obscured cheeks. She gave him the softest of kisses and even then, the mask got in her way.   
“Let me see you, Erik. How can I kiss you properly if my lips cannot reach your skin?”  
“You will not want to kiss me once you have seen me.”  
She kissed him again, a little harder this time.  
“I promise you I will.”  
And he believed her. He allowed her to remove the mask from his trembling face. She irreverently tossed it over her shoulder. Upon seeing his true self she found her kisses came even more ardently than before. His vulnerability galvanized her. She pushed him back onto a chair and hitched her dress to her knees.  
“Christine!”  
She answered by sliding onto his lap and sinking herself into his arms. For a fleeting moment, he did not know where to place his hands. But they found their way into her ravishing mass of locks and plaits and flowers and pushed her head close against his.They each pulled the flower crowns from the other’s head and tossed them aside. Without breaking away from his mouth she unfastened the top buttons of his black shirt. He writhed under her touch. No one had ever touched him like this. It was unbearable. Desire was the most tormenting feeling he had ever experienced. A worse pain than drowning or strangulation or overheating. Let it never end!  
A loud bang at his door startled them out of their bliss. He instinctively covered his face with his hands.  
“Who could that be?” She cursed them for the interruption.  
A muffled familiar voice shouted from outside,  
“Christine!”  
“What the hell - it’s Raoul!”  
“What is that fool doing here?” Erik groaned into his fingers. “Christine, please, where is my mask?”  
She climbed out of his lap and looked around at their feet. She didn’t see it anywhere.   
“I don’t know! I’m so sorry. Let me talk to him. I’ll make him go away.”  
She threw open the door with rage.   
“What are you doing here?” she hissed.   
A forlorn Raoul attempted to stumble across the threshold. She flung out her two arms, fixing a barrier against him.   
“Stay out, Raoul! No one invited you here!”   
Poor Raoul, his eyes were bloodshot from crying and drinking. He reeked of whiskey and wine - a terrible idea. With alarm she realized he carried with him a sword.  
“That’s just the prop sword from the play, right?”   
“What, this?” he said stupidly, brandishing the weapon so that it glinted in the streetlight.   
She suddenly felt Erik at her back.   
“What is this about a sword? Is he bothering you, Christine?” he asked tensely.  
Upon seeing Erik’s unmasked face, Raoul screamed and defensively plunged the blade into the air.   
“Put that down you foolish brat!” Erik commanded. “You have no idea what you are doing!”  
This was true. On his second attack, Raoul narrowed his drunken eyes and aimed straight for Erik's heart. But Christine threw her body between them in most tender protection and he instead sliced right through the sleeve of her dress and pierced her arm. The blade passed from her skin to Erik’s, grazing his open chest.   
Erik grabbed a hold of the metal blade with his bare hand to steer it away from Christine. He did not realize that he was weeping; Raoul's shriek of horror had wounded him far more deeply than the cut of the blade. The blood seeping through the torn white fabric of Christine’s dress sent him into a fit of sobs. He could not bear to see her hurting. Look at the mayhem this fop had brought to his doorstep!  
Raoul blithely took a hold of Christine’s fair face and landed an astounding kiss upon her lips. His thin mustache tickled her mouth as trickles of mascara streamed down her face, carried on tears of confusion. What madness was this? To have one man weeping on her shoulder while the other both kissed and stabbed her. But there it was! That jolt of passion, that essential element. She surprised even herself by returning his kiss - just a few darts of her tongue - before shoving him away and wiping her mouth.   
“Go away, Raoul!”  
It was only then that Raoul had a view of the bleeding gash. He sobered up quickly.  
“Oh, Christine! What have I done? But it was just a prop - I didn’t know it could hurt anyone. My love, forgive me!”  
“Imbecile!” Erik growled as he pulled Christine backwards into his own arms. He sat her in the chair - the one where just moments before she had wrapped her legs about him. “Help me. I have a first aid kit under the sink in the bathroom. Make yourself useful and bring it here!”   
Erik went about quickly rolling up her sleeve to better inspect the cut flesh of her arm.   
“Oh Christine, little angel, does it hurt?”  
“No, no,” she murmured. Raoul’s kiss had hurt her more. Because she had enjoyed it. And now she was so very confused.  
Raoul returned with the first aid kit and Erik pulled out alcohol and bandages to begin dressing her wound. He knelt beside her as he worked and Raoul knelt at the other side of her, kissing her other hand and begging her forgiveness. But it wasn’t forgiveness that she was in the mood to bestow. Raoul licked his thumbs and rubbed them below her eyes, wiping away the smudged mascara. The sensation of both men touching her, nursing her, adoring her - it was overwhelming. It was better than any fantasy she had ever dared to entertain.   
“Erik,” Raoul said gravely, “you’re bleeding too.”  
For the first time Erik looked down at his own damaged palm.   
“Let me,” Raoul whispered. Erik held out his claw, long fingers outstretched and trembling. Raoul cleaned the cut and looked up as he wrapped the bandage gently. He remembered then that he had cried out when he first saw Erik’s face. He couldn’t lie - it was a discomfiting sight. But attractive in some inexplicable way. “Please forgive me,” Raoul asked softly.   
Erik turned away. He had never wanted either of them to see him unmasked. He felt overexposed - almost numb with shame.   
“I am so sorry, Erik. I didn’t mean to intrude. I love her, you see. I just didn’t want to be left behind.” Raoul gently pressed his thumb into Erik’s palm, over the bandaged cut. He looked up into Erik’s face with sorry eyes. He felt moved to land a kiss on the gray flesh of his wrist. Unnerved by this unexpected display, Erik rose hastily and pulled Christine to her feet as well.   
“I think it is time to say goodnight,” he said to Raoul, sliding his arm possessively around Christine’s waist. Raoul hung his head in surrender.   
“I had no right to come here,” he whispered.  
“Stay,” she said, turning both their heads. She turned behind her and lifted her mouth to Rauol’s, then turned to Erik and kissed him just the same. “He can stay, can’t he?” she asked.  
In a rush of passion, Erik pressed his mouth to her mouth, his body against her body. He steered her backwards into Raoul, and Raoul backwards into the chair where Christine fell on top of him. Erik slowly kneeled before them and wedged his noseless face into her warm lap.   
“Yes,” he said. “He can stay.”  
He slowly lifted the hem of her dress up to her knees and gently pushed her thighs apart so that they hung off Raoul’s lap. She curled her feet around Raoul’s calves to brace herself as Erik ran his tongue along the satin of her underwear. Raoul wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned his head into her neck. All he had wanted was to be next to her. And maybe now he wanted a little more. He unfastened the buttons of the bloodied white dress and helped her push the bodice down around her waist. He then worked on the hooks of her corset and hungrily pulled the contraption from her chest. While Erik nestled his mouth into her sex, Raoul delighted himself in hardening her nipples beneath his fingertips. Her head rolled backwards onto his shoulder. He sought her lips for a kiss. She ran her toes up the backs of his legs as she pushed herself further into Erik’s jaws.   
Raoul searched beneath her legs for the buttons of his own trousers. Shakespeare-compliant, his costume had no zipper. He surreptitiously opened himself up, thinking he might rub himself against her bare skin, but it slipped out from his grasp and sprung up between her legs, brushing Erik’s chin.   
Erik halted. They all three looked down. But what an exciting feast this was! Erik took them all by surprise by pulling Raoul into his hands and devouring him too. He alternated between the two. His tongue wrote canticles across Raoul’s cock and sonnets upon Christine’s sex and he delighted in the chorus of pleasure he pulled from their throats. He decided that Raoul should come first so that he could devote all his efforts to Christine. He reached up and took Raoul’s hands in his and guided his fingers into Christine. As Christine rolled her hips against Raoul’s attentions, Erik stroked Raoul with his bandaged hand, little spots of blood bleeding through. Again he took Raoul into his mouth, to pull the release out of him. And then Raoul was promptly forgotten about.   
Erik lifted Christine out of the chair with ease. She had never expected that his slender frame could possess such strength. She wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face in his neck as he carried her to his bed. Her fingers caressed his sharp collar bone and moved to finish unbuttoning his shirt, but in his modesty he stilled them and pulled them to his trousers so that she could unzip his fly instead. His breath grew shallow as she took him into her hands.   
“I love you, Christine!”  
She hesitated to respond. Did she love Erik? Did she love Raoul over there too? Was she allowed to love them both?   
“I love you,” he said again, a twinge of desperation in his voice. He hovered over her, pressing himself lightly against her, biting her neck, driving her mad with expectation. Why should she be so mingy with her love?  
“I love you, I do love you, Erik,” she whispered.  
And with those words in his malformed ears he ravished her. He filled her with pleasure, until she was dripping with it. Until she was exhausted of it. Until he rolled off of her and they found Raoul standing over them, tears lining his face. She stretched out her bandaged and stinging arm to him,  
“Come, Raoul. I can love you both, can’t I?”  
Raoul fell onto the bed beside her with a whimper. She took him into her arms, smoothing his golden hair with her fingertips while he brushed his cheek against her breasts.   
“I can love you both,” she whispered again.   
Erik moved to entwine his still-clothed body around her naked form, his scarred and scabbing chest pressed against her smooth back, his left arm wrapped around her waist. But slowly, his arm moved to encompass Raoul, pressing their three bodies together tightly. Raoul very tentatively landed a hand on Erik’s sharp hip, closing the circle. Sleep called to each of them. It had been a very long night.

_O time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t'untie._

When Raoul awoke, he was somehow in the middle. He found Christine drooling on his right arm, while Erik’s cool breath raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Christine’s right arm was draped across his waist. Was it her little hand that reached around and fluttered between his thighs, or was it Erik’s cock pressing against him? He sucked in his breath a little as he realized it was both. Christine was pulling Erik’s hardness against him. He turned his head to look at her quizzically. They did not speak but with their eyes. He gave Erik his consent through Christine, who guided the throbbing thing into him. Even when Erik was firmly inside, Christine did not remove her hand. She kept it between them, a mediator, a spectator. Raoul slid his fingers across her sex and found that this was all immensely exciting to her. He would do anything she asked, but as Erik began his rhythmic thrusting, Raoul began to melt with pleasure. Pure pleasure. He would do this even if she hadn’t asked. His hips pushed against Erik and a soft purr escaped his lips.   
Chrstine’s invasive hand traveled from his back to his chest and down around his cock. Oh, she wanted everything. When he was hard, she threw her leg over his hip, giving Erik a light kick with her heel. She opened herself up to Raoul and though the angle was difficult he pulled her hips close and entered her. After a few awkward and mistimed thrusts, the pleasure began to flow through them evenly, from Erik to Raoul to Christine. 

When sunlight finally broke through the windows of the dim basement, Christine found herself in the middle. She smiled and stretched her back like a cat. She rolled over and sat up on her knees in the bed. She looked down at Raoul and Erik, sleeping peacefully beneath her. But how did any of this happen? She reached out both hands and stroked their cheeks. She allowed her fingertips to wander down Erik’s neck, featherlight, tracing the outline of his clavicle. This bone alone could be her new religion. Erik opened his eyes hesitantly - as if he did not believe she would really be there when he awoke. Raoul covered his head with a pillow and rolled over. He had a terrible hangover.   
“What should we do today?” she asked.  
“Sleep!” Raoul grunted from beneath the pillow.  
“I would like to go to the park,” Erik said quietly.   
“The park?” she asked. It seemed almost too quotidienne an answer from such an extraordinary man. He stretched out his arm and ran a cool hand from the center of her chest down to her belly. She shivered beneath his touch.  
“It’s Sunday,” he said, as if that meant something quite special to him.  
“Let’s have a picnic!” Christine sat up and began getting dressed. She pulled from her bag a sleeveless rose-colored blouse and a pair of ripped jeans. It was as if she had always known she would not be sleeping in her own bed that night. She had come prepared.  
She padded across Erik’s small apartment and opened the refrigerator.   
“Erik! There’s no food in here. Don’t you ever eat?”  
He did not admit that he rarely ate. That he was often so consumed with music that he had no appetite for anything else. He felt though, that this might soon change. The night’s activities had indeed left him ravenous. In the most literal sense.  
Erik rose out of bed and quickly dressed himself, not allowing Christine too much time to catch a glimpse of his body. He grabbed a leather satchel and filled it with a folded red and white blanket, a book of Keats, and turned around to look for his mask on the floor.  
The mask was an issue. Christine insisted he didn’t need it, while Erik knew better. He wanted nothing more than to be out in public with them. But he wasn’t ready to show his face to strangers. That he now had two less strangers in his life was enough beauty for one day.   
Together they pulled Raoul out of bed. They made him step into his pants; Christine pulled a borrowed undershirt of Erik’s over his head. Erik even lent him a pair of sunglasses to ease his headache. On the way out, Christine thrust the crown of flowers back over Erik’s head. She allowed him to do the same to her. She flashed her crystal smile and touched his cheek affectionately.  
They turned a few heads in the supermarket, the masked man with his two young lovers. They filled Erik’s satchel with cherries and watermelon and beer, which seemed like a perfect midsummer picnic. At the park, the platform had already been dismantled, but the leading actors now had the entire field as their stage. The three held hands as they found a shady place beneath a tree to spread their blanket.   
For a while, they didn’t feel much like talking. Erik propped his satchel against the tree trunk like a pillow and leaned his head against it while he read from his book. Raoul rested his own head on Erik’s chest and promptly fell asleep again. Christine nestled herself into the curve of Erik’s shoulder, spinning her flowers through her fingers while watching the sunlight pass through the leaves. Occasionally, Erik swept his fingers through Raoul’s golden hair, or brushed them against the skin of Christine’s arm, stroking with care the area near her bandage. She inspected the wound in his palm with a sigh. But they both knew Raoul was sorry for it. He had more than made amends.   
Later, when Raoul awoke, he slid his hand down the inside of Erik’s thigh to rest below his knee. Christine passed him a beer and he gladly took it. He broke the silence of the moment with a sudden thought,   
“It may be kind of late but, shouldn’t we have used condoms last night?” he asked, staring up at the clouds.  
“And this morning too?” Christine added.  
Perhaps because he was the oldest, they each looked up at Erik.   
“I suppose we should have at least discussed it. For my part,” here Erik breathed the deep sigh of a secret revealed, “this was my first time. With anyone.”  
“Oh,” Raoul said with relief, “well, me too.”  
Then the men each looked over towards Christine.  
“Um, I’m on birth control already.”   
Their eyes pressed her to continue.  
“And, yeah, you two are my first.” She smiled and sheepishly buried her head more deeply into Erik’s side. She reached across his bony chest and laced her fingers in Raoul’s.  
“Wait, so we were just three virgins doing it for the first time?” Christine asked incredulously. “Isn’t it supposed to be really bad the first time? I mean, for everyone?”  
“That’s what I’ve always read,” Erik agreed.  
“Wasn’t it supposed to be so painful?” she pondered.  
“And weren’t you supposed to bleed everywhere?” Raoul asked.   
“But last night was amazing. I mean, how - ?” she asked.  
They all sat with that question for a moment, the warm breeze passing over them. The sound of children and songbirds rang out in the distance.  
“I’ve read a lot of books,” Erik offered.  
“And I’ve seen lots of pictures!” Raoul added.  
“And I’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about all kinds of scenarios,” Christine said dreamily.   
“Did it live up to your imagination, my angel?” Erik asked, kissing the top of her head. Raoul resettled his own head in the crook of Erik’s neck, careful not to lay directly on the bruised cut on Erik's chest.   
“Oh no, it far exceeded my imagination,” she laughed. “It was much, much stranger than I ever could have dreamt it.” 

_Love sought is good, but giv’n unsought is better._

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